by Gina Welborn
Malia gripped the armrests to keep from jumping to her feet and screaming with joy. Instead, she issued her thanks and walked sedately from Mrs. Nordhoff’s office.
Once work was over for the day, she’d hurry home and write Frank a letter. Not that she’d mail it, as she had any of the others. Writing to him every night probably put her in the class of silly Lydia Bennet from Pride and Prejudice, but she didn’t care. She wanted to follow her heart, and her heart couldn’t quite let go of Frank.
* * *
The next morning Malia removed the last of the stars-and-stripes fabric from the display wall and laid it in the box with the rest of the decorations. The morning sun streaming through the street-front windows warmed her back. The bells of a trolley clanged as another one turned off Pike and onto Second and passed her window. The trumpeter who played ragtime at the corner hadn’t yet arrived. But it wasn’t yet noon, his usual time of arrival. She and the hundreds of pedestrians would have the rest of the afternoon to listen to him.
A hand rapped against the glass, but she paid it no mind. With the Bon Marché located in the business heart of the city, window gawkers, usually children and college boys, found it amusing to tap on the window whenever she was working on a display. Ignoring was easier if she wanted to finish her work on time.
Malia stepped back until she was almost at the window. Placing her hands on the hips of her robin’s egg blue dress, she took in the emptied space and visualized her sketch coming to life. The beach scene she’d painted on a canvas would fill the back wall nicely. Five mannequins would be too much, though. She needed only an adult one and two children and—
A hand rapped again against the glass with a firmer rat-a-tat-tat-tat.
Malia stretched her arm to the side and waved. That usually appeased whoever was watching her. Worse, it could be one of the three deliverymen who had already invited her out for ice after work.
Rat-a-tat-tat-tat.
She sighed. She may as well give the attention the person wanted so she could get back to work. Malia turned around. Instead of a person, at eye level was a three-by-four-foot sketch pad with two words in the center—
MALIA CARR
The man, in neatly pressed pin-striped trousers, flipped the page up and over.
Her eyes widened.
WILL YOU MARRY ME?
She laughed. “Is this a joke?” she said, although there was nobody in the store around the display to hear her. Her hand hovered over the glass before she unleashed her own rat-a-tat-tat-tat.
The sign lowered.
There, with the cheekiest grin ever, stood Frank.
Her heart found the beat it had been missing since she last saw him. She looked at him askance. “What are you doing here?” she called out and hoped he could hear her through the glass.
He cupped his ear and frowned.
Malia pointed to the Second Avenue entrance. He tucked the sketch pad under his arm and took off jogging. She stepped around boxes and down out of the display window. After allowing two customers to pass, she looked for Frank. He stood several feet away next to a glass jewelry case. He laid his sketch pad on the top.
“I didn’t hear your answer.” He quirked a smile, the same one she remembered every time she closed her eyes.
Malia walked up to him. “What are you doing here? How did you find me? What are you thinking? Not to mention, why—”
“Whoa there, little lady. I can only handle three questions at a time.”
“Little lady?”
“I may have read a few dime novels during the train ride—” his face lost all amusement “—across the entire continental United States. You couldn’t have chosen Iowa?”
“There’s no ocean there,” she said with a shrug.
His blue eyes widened. “There’s not?”
She chuckled. “Stop avoiding my questions.”
He inclined his head to the sketch pad. “That’s why I’m here. I found you because I went to the Wizard to ask him for consent to marry his granddaughter.” His face screwed up as if he was trying to solve a perplexing puzzle. “I was thinking that I love you.”
A squeak came from the jewelry clerk whose hands covered her heart.
Something about his smile made Malia feel as if she were floating out of her skin. A dozen customers were milling about the counters, focusing more on them than the gems in the cabinets, yet she couldn’t school her smile or that silly Lydia Bennet giggle. “You were thinking that?”
He looked pained. “I may still be thinking I love you.”
“You may?”
“No, I’m pretty sure I do.” He stepped closer. “I know it’s too soon for us to get married,” he said in a serious voice, “but if you give me the benefit of the doubt, over time, you will realize you can trust me, not as a marshal protecting you but as a husband.”
Malia stepped closer still. She threaded her fingers through his. “How about we agree to be each other’s protector? Each other’s best friend.”
“Interesting proposal, Miss Carr. I’ll watch over you, and you’ll watch over me. Hmm.” His brow furrowed. “Does that mean I have to keep my eyes on you at all times? Once we’re married, of course,” he quickly added.
“Oh, well, if that’s too much work—”
His finger touched her lips. “Hold that thought.” He freed his hand from hers and picked up the sketch pad and gave it to the jewelry clerk. “Would you mind holding it—” he stood it upright “—just like this.” The pad blocked them from her view. “Ah, perfect.”
Malia pressed her lips together so she wouldn’t laugh.
Frank looked at her, cleared his throat, straightened his suit coat and adjusted his tie. “I believe I asked a question you haven’t answered.”
Her heart clenched. “Yes, I would very much like—”
His hands cradled her face, and his lips found hers, the first touch achingly gentle, a light brush of his lips against hers. Malia gasped. He drew back, questioning her with his eyes. He was gazing at her with such love and restraint. He whispered her name, and she rose to her toes, gripping the front of his jacket with a sense of urgency in her veins. His lips tasted of coffee and crumpets, of wishes fulfilled. Before she knew it, he’d wrapped his arms around her waist, lifting her toes off the ground.
Malia sighed with contentment. Frank may have pursued her, but she found the man she wanted and she wasn’t ever going to let go.
Until the floor manager came over and asked what exactly was going on.
To which Frank replied, “Finding home. There’s no place like it, you know.”
* * * * *
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ISBN-13: 9781460339381
The Marshal’s Pursuit
Copyright © 2014 by Gina Welborn
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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual pe
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